


Constellations

by disheveledangelinatrenchcoat (bigblackhorse4)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous Castiel, M/M, handprint!kink, this is my first time writing smut so be gentle please, wing!kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 08:08:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1543733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblackhorse4/pseuds/disheveledangelinatrenchcoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after 5x04, under the premise that Dean and Castiel travelled together to meet up with Sam, only, before reaching the meeting point, Cas gets a bit jealous when a very frustrated Dean tries to hook up with a girl at the local bar (who shows a striking resemblance to one angel of the Lord). Confusion and angst ensues, followed by sexy times. Also, sassy Sam being a total little brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Constellations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GreyMichaela](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyMichaela/gifts).



> First and foremost, this is ALL GreyMichaela's fault. Not the shipping Dean and Cas; I only have myself to blame for that. But the smut? All her. I happened to mention I'd never written a smut scene because it freaked me out, so she said I should just write one and get it over with 
> 
> I'm still a little fuzzy on how exactly I ended up writing Destiel and also, easier said than done, because I think I started this in January or February, but here it is. Finally. And I think I've officially ripped off the smut band-aid. I plan to write a second part to this fic (it will probably be shorter though).
> 
> Comments and critiques are always welcome! Thanks for reading!

~ 

 

“Where’s Cas?” Sam asked, eyebrows scrunched together as he settled down into the booth across from Dean. The confusion on his face was a result of Dean actually being awake before him ( _or did he not go to sleep yet?_ ) and the absence of one angel of the Lord.

Dean’s head shot up from where he’d been contemplating his breakfast— _how the fuck does he know?_ —looking like a deer in the headlights, only this deer was panicked his baby brother would discover what activities he’d been up to the night before. Or rather, the activities he’d _almost_ been up to. _Shut up brain, shut up_. The hunter had been staring at the slowly cooling platter of pancakes, bacon, and eggs for the past ten minutes without managing to take a bite. His mind continued to feed him a continuous loop of the several hours previous, trying over and over to figure out what the hell went wrong.

Sam glanced at Dean’s face, then the untouched plate in front of his brother. Faint alarm crept onto his face, but the middle-aged waitress arrived at that moment with an air of pleasant efficiency and a coffee pot, asking for Sam’s order, which delayed his barrage of questions. The waitress, Maggie by her nametag, poured Sam a cup of coffee then scurried off to give the order to the cook and take care of her other patrons. Dean’s gaze fell back to the bacon as if those strips of pork fat would render him the secrets of the universe and beyond. Sam exhaled and gulped down the coffee; he was going to need it.

Adding a splash of cream to the coffee, Sam waited expectantly for Dean to answer him, but it appeared his brother had either forgotten his question, or was hell-bent on not answering it. Either was possible, though Sam was leaning towards the latter. He cleared his throat, then queried, “So…Cas?”

 In any other situation, Dean’s expression of sheer horror should have been a cause for panic, but seeing as how Lucifer wasn’t barging into the small-town diner with an army of demons at his back, Sam breathed a little easier. _Plus, Dean would’ve called him if something had gone really wrong…hopefully._

 Dean started fidgeting with the silver ring on his right hand, trying to figure out how he would explain Castiel’s disappearance to Sam. He had no earthly idea when or _if_ the angel would return, not when he suddenly zapped himself out of Dean’s— _their_ —motel room a little after midnight. Abandoning the ring, Dean scrubbed his hands over his face and muttered, “He left.”

 “Okay. When’s he coming back?” Sam’s voice took on that deathly calm voice much adored by therapists; the kind where they tried to soothe the patient and simultaneously not trigger any sort of emotional response, but still get the much needed information.

 That voice just served to make the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stand on end. “How am I supposed to know, Sammy? Cas doesn’t exactly send me texts via Angel Radio to let me know his whereabouts.”

 Sam’s eyes widened in surprise at the abruptness of Dean’s answer, and he took a moment to redirect his approach. Another sip of coffee, a pause to thank Maggie who had just brought him his oatmeal and slice of whole wheat toast, and he said, “So he didn’t say at all when he’d be back? I thought those omens in Nebraska needed to be looked into ASAP.”

 “I don’t _freaking_ know, Sam. Just let me eat my breakfast in peace,” Dean barked, despite not having touched his meal yet. He resumed his intense stare-down with the bacon, looking slightly disgusted: whether with himself or the breakfast, Sam couldn’t quite be sure.

 Sam deemed it wise not to comment on that, but he could read in his older brother’s face that _something_ big had happened. And that _something_ had everything to do with why Castiel had disappeared overnight.

 He knew Dean wouldn’t just blurt it out, especially with how strange he was acting. He’d have to steadily work to pry it out of his brother. To throw Dean off, Sam asked, “So should we head towards Omaha then, after we finish breakfast?”

 Dean blinked, confused by Sam’s tactic change, but recovered himself after a moment. Voice gruff, he replied, “I guess so. Cas knows our numbers, so he’ll call us when he needs to find us...hopefully.”

 Sam picked up on the forlorn drop at the end of Dean's reply. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands, trying to appear as non-confrontational as possible. With a bland, innocent tone heralding only a touch of concern Sam said, “Do you think he won't come back?”

 Grimacing, Dean stabbed at his eggs but only stirred them around. He managed a “dunno” sound and a cavalier shrug of the shoulders, but Sam read the worry and disgust on his face. Sam guessed that the disgust was aimed at himself, because it was _Dean_. Dean never would believe he was deserving of anything on this earth.  

 “Hey, it’s _Castiel_. He always shows up at the right moment to back us up,” Sam said, smiling, trying to get his brother to reciprocate. _Anything_ but that mask of self-hatred and anxiety frozen on Dean's face.

 “Yeah,” Dean said, though he certainly didn’t sound like he believed it. He couldn’t honestly say _he_ believed himself either. _Really fucked up this time_.

 Sam’s attempts to break Dean out of his funk were falling flat. And that was worrying; Sam had never seen his brother like this, even when Sam had unwittingly broke the final seal and unleashed the Apocalypse—and Lucifer—on the world. And that was sort of the lowest of lows in terms of what kind of shit can go wrong.

 “Did you two have a fight?” Sam asked, trying to broach the subject, though it was an odd question to ask, seeing as how the majority of Dean and Cas’s relationship he'd seen thus far _had been_ arguing. Arguing, and tension that most would consider somewhat sexual in nature, but Sam wasn’t going to touch the second one until Dean brought it up.

 “I-I don’t know.” Dean’s admission seemed to make him break a little more inside. Dean didn’t know which way was up at this point. _What if Cas didn’t ever come back?_

 Sam frowned in concern, “You don't _know_ if you had a fight?”

 “We were...I was...we’d...” Dean faltered, at a loss at how to explain. _Fuck_. He finally glanced up and looked Sam in the eyes, floundering for traction in his own mind.

 Talking to Dean right now was like dealing a wild, flighty animal. His eyes were panicky at the thought of being cornered, so Sam treaded with a light touch. With hesitation, Sam probed, “So what did you do last night then?”

 Dean's jaw twitched, and his eyes widened helplessly. He scanned the diner to check for anyone in earshot, but they were tucked away in a corner booth, so there was little chance of being overheard. _Jesus fucking Christ_. Bacon was rearranged and pancakes cut into even tinier squares on the plate before Dean drew in a large gulp of air, then said, “I don't want to hear any shit, least not ‘til I'm done telling you. Got it? _And don’t fucking laugh_.”

 Sam nodded his agreement, though Dean doubted his little brother would be able to contain himself when he got to the end of the story. Another steadying breath, and he thought, _Here goes nothing_.           

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

_Dean knocked back the whiskey, slamming the shot-glass on the bar counter with enough force that the bartender shot him a sharp look. Dean waved his hand in acknowledgement and apology, then turned his attention back to the bar proper. It was a Friday night, so even though it was a relatively small town, the bar was packed with all sorts of characters._

  _And several of those characters he wouldn’t mind getting to know a little better. He_ really _needed to get laid._

  _He eased his way into the crowd, testing the atmosphere, before catching the eye of a pretty brunette from where she sat with a friend—also attractive but not what he was looking for tonight—casually watching a pool game. She smiled receptively at Dean, and he approached her, offering to buy a drink for her and her friend. The friend looked pleased and a bit surprised at his offer, but gave the nod of approval to the girl who introduced herself as Lily Jenkins._

  _Dean gave his name as Aaron Thomas and steered Lily towards two empty barstools. They were about twenty minutes and two drinks into their conversation when he noted the arrival of Cas, wind-blown hair and tie askew as always. Cas zeroed in on Dean sitting at the bar within seconds and stamped over, trench coat billowing out behind him. Several sets of eyes tracked the angel as he made his way towards Dean from the door: the women’s faces held appreciative desire, the men’s suspicion. Probably because of his oddly sexy, no wait,_ eccentric _and_ rumpled _outfit._ Eccentric, yes _._

  _The brunette in front of him continued to chat him up, rambling on about daisies and roses—_ no wait, Daisy and Rose were her sisters, moving along _—and Dean attempted to submerse himself back in the rather one-sided conversation. Castiel took a seat at the bar, just on the other side of Lily (_ these people really named all their kids after flowers? _), before signaling the bartender for a drink. Dean mentally sighed; he’d probably have to pay for Cas’s drink since the total_ greenie _angel tended to forget about the earthly concept of monetary transactions. If it weren’t so exasperating at times, it’d probably be endearing._

 Endearing? What? _Dean shook his head to clear away the errant thoughts and move back to the task at hand. The task of hopefully charming Lily enough to have some late night fun in his motel room so that he could actually think about the damn road when driving himself and Cas to meet up with Sam, instead of—_ never mind _. Dean prayed that stupid voice in his head would shut the hell up, but then immediately regretted it._ Fuck, what if Cas can hear that? Do prayers have to be said aloud? Shut _up_ brain.

  _Aware he’d spaced out, Dean noted Castiel and Lily were staring at him in twin looks of concern, probably because they could see the naked panic flitting across his face (_ or Cas just heard that prayer _). Lily leaned forward, resting a hand on his arm as she asked, “Are you alright, Aaron?”_

  _“Yeah I’m-” Dean broke off his answer when Lily jumped, removing her hand from his forearm, and glanced around her, bewildered, a frown on her face. Cas had turned away and was speaking to the bartender, asking for a beer—the same brew Dean usually ordered—but his mouth was tugged up in the corners even after the bartender walked away. Dean mentally catalogued that for further inspection and analysis later, but dragged his attention back to Lily and said, “Are_ you _okay?”_

  _Her face scrunched up in a way that really made him notice the freckles on her cheeks and the faded out cerulean of her eyes that he wished were a bit bluer before she laughed at her own jumpiness. Dean chuckled with her, though he couldn’t help but take a surreptitious glance over her shoulder at Cas, who was frowning into his beer bottle._

  _Dean’s left shoulder twinged—must’ve pulled something during that last fight—and he rolled his neck back and forth to try to relieve a bit of the tension. Then he reached his right hand up to rub where the left arm attaches to the shoulder just in time to see a midnight blue wing speckled in white arc out and smack Lily upside the head as she regaled him with the story of how she’d just spent the last few months in Australia._

  _It’s a good thing Lily jumped and spun around then, because Dean sat there, mouth agape at what he’d just seen. The rational part of his mind concluded it had to be Castiel’s wing, that the angel had just summoned it from wherever he hid them to assault this poor girl, but the rest of him just sputtered,_ Did he really just?

  _And as fast as the long, feathered wing had appeared, it had vanished. Though it was impossible for Dean not to stare at Cas in the hopes of seeing it again._

  _Lily turned back to Dean, though still throwing nervous glances over her shoulder every few seconds. Finally, she stammered, “Umm…I think I’m going to head home. I’m starting to feel a little weird.”_

  _Clearing his throat, Dean managed, “Hey, yeah. Feel better. It was nice meetin’ you.”_

_Lily skittered over to her friend, and after a brief exchange, they scurried out of the bar. Dean watched them leave before swinging the stool back to face the angel trying very hard to fight the smugness creeping onto his face._

  _“What the_ hell _was that, Cas?” Dean hissed, trying to avoid any further attention from the other bar patrons._

  _Castiel’s eyes widened for the briefest of moments but then slid into his standard operating mode of eyes narrowed and head tilted to the side like a bewildered puppy. Dean tried not to think about how much he enjoyed the gravelly rumble of his friend’s voice when Cas said, “What are you talking about, Dean?”_

  _Dean huffed in protest and slid over a seat to have this conversation closer to Cas, lest they be overheard (_ yeah, that’s it _). The angel sipped his beer and studiously avoided Dean’s gaze. Drumming his fingers on the bar-counter, Dean considered what he knew and why on earth Cas would scare off his date for the night. Two and two weren’t making four—least the way he saw it—and every possibility, every scenario he came up with made less sense than the last. Because it couldn’t be what his twisted-up mind had been bombarding him with as of late—that’d be_ impossible _._

  _“Cas._ Cas _.” The dark-haired angel glanced up and looked at him, his face completely neutral, but his cobalt blue eyes shone over-bright with an emotion Dean couldn’t quite identify. An indeterminate amount of time passed (_ how fucking long? Jesus Christ _) before Dean realized he’d been staring into Cas’s_ very _blue eyes and not saying a word—just staring. He coughed and dropped his gaze to Cas’s beer bottle, trying to collect his thoughts, but instead found himself imagining what it would feel like to have Cas’s lips on his-_

 Fuck _. Dean downed the reminder of the drink in front of him, grimacing a bit when he realized it was Lily’s martini—way too fruity for his taste. He pinched the bridge of his nose before turning back to Castiel, who eyed him with trepidation._

 " _Dean?” The voice was hesitant. “Dean, are you all right?” Cas leaned forward, invading personal space as always, as he examined Dean’s face minutely. His left hand came to rest on Dean’s knee, and soon, his face was mere inches from Dean’s—so close that all Dean would have to do is incline his head and their lips would be-_

  _Dean jerked back, his spine slamming hard into the wood back of the barstool. The angel’s smell had been intoxicating—far worse than the alcohol he’d consumed tonight. A mixture of open air coming in through the window of the Impala, cold evergreen forest, and gunpowder overlaid with the scent of his favorite beer, and he’d just nearly kissed a dude._ Well, an angel. A _dude_ angel. Castiel. Still an angel. But a _dude_. Dude angel.

  _His brain continued to ramble on in that vein, until he realized Cas’s hand was still resting on his knee, and there was no way for Dean to remove it; then he realized he really didn’t_ want _Cas to move it._ But what if this isn’t what he means? What if-

  _"_ _Dean.” Cas’s voice carried an air of authority, enough that Dean’s mind stopped running in circles for a moment. Dean inhaled shakily before meeting Cas’s gaze. The angel never even moved when Dean had lurched backward, choosing to remain right there, a steady rock to Dean’s frantic, storm-tossed sea. “Dean, I-”_

  _“Why did you hit her with one of your wings?” Dean interrupted, though in a whisper so no one would hear that little beauty. This was important; Cas’s answer was important._

_So, it seemed, was Cas’s reaction._

_Cas often wore an expression of vague bafflement at human nature in general, but this was the first time Dean had seen the angel genuinely surprised. Shocked, even. Castiel choked on air he didn’t need to breathe and glanced over each of his shoulders, then jerked his head back to face Dean._

  _“You saw-” Cas began, and then after realization flooded his features, he grabbed Dean by the wrist and started to pull him off the barstool, making for the door outside._

_Protesting, Dean said, “Cas, the tab.” But really, he was looking for any distraction that would give him a chance to catch up on what the holy fuck (_ haha, holy fuck) _was going on._

  _With a growl, Castiel moved back towards the bar and yanked a hundred dollar bill out of his coat pocket and tossed it on the counter. Next, he was dragging Dean out of the bar much to the shock of Dean and every other person present at the bar._

_Thankfully (_ for who? _) the bar was right across the street from the motel Dean had a room at. Castiel never asked Dean for the room number, but led him straight to the door of Room 104, not saying a word—just motioning for the room key._

  _With shaking, clumsy hands, Dean managed to unlock the door and do a quick sweep for any trouble before turning back to Cas, who took that time to shut and lock the door. The angel turned towards him and stepped closer, those razor sharp eyes piercing him, looking at his soul, as he said, “You saw my wings? How?”_

  _“How the fuck am I supposed to know, Cas?” Dean retorted, running a hand through his hair and tugging at it, worrying about everything: his ragged emotions, Castiel’s painfully beautiful wings,_ why, why?

  _Cas’s mouth twitched, and he made a small noise in his throat. He let his eyes track down, studying Dean, looking for something. His eyes narrowed, and he squinted hard at Dean’s left bicep. “What were you doing when you saw my wings?” he drilled._

  _Annoyed at the inane line of questioning, Dean snapped, “_ Trying _to hook up with a pretty girl that you decided to_ wing-slap _.”_

  _Cas smirked, the right side of his mouth quirking up at Dean’s words._

_“What? What’s so funny?” Dean demanded, taking a step towards Cas, anger welling up. Frustrated didn’t even begin to cover what was going on in his head and body right now._

_"Your choice of mate,” Cas said, no trace of humor or emotion in his voice, or on his face now for that matter. Dean peered at Cas, a hollow feeling in his gut. The angel added, “She looked like my vessel, don’t you think?”_

 Oh fuck. _Dean swallowed several times and concentrated on breathing, though it was hard to focus with his pulse pounding so loudly in his ears. When he thought he’d managed to gain some semblance of control, he replied, “And? Your point there, Feather-brain?”_

  _Cas faltered there, losing a bit of bravado. He shifted uneasily beneath his trench coat and spent a good minute staring at anything_ but _Dean. Then he said abruptly, “Did you touch your mark?”_

  _Scrambling mentally to catch up, Dean replied, “Huh?”_

_"My mark. On your arm,” Cas murmured, though at that low of volume it was difficult to discern what he said due to the deep timbre of his voice. Dean leaned closer to try to hear him at the same time Cas took a step towards Dean. In that harsh whisper, Cas asked again, “When you saw my wings, were you touching the mark?”_

  _Thinking back over the event, Dean realized that_ yes _, he had been rubbing his shoulder near the handprint seared into his skin when he saw the wing hit Lily in the back of the head. Dean nodded his head, puzzlement at this whole scenario making his movements slow. His voice cracked as he said, “Wha-What does that mean?”_

_“It means,” Cas said, taking another step, “that a small part of my Grace must have been left inside you when I raised you from perdition.”_

  _They were standing scant inches apart, even closer than they’d been in the bar. Castiel’s scent overwhelmed Dean’s senses; that wonderful combination he’d nearly gotten drunk off of earlier, though now there seemed to be an addition to the mix—it reminded him of lightning strikes and heavy rain. Dean couldn’t comprehend how someone could smell that_ heavenly _, but then choked back the laughter because,_ hello _, angel. As Dean clung to his rapidly vanishing wits, Cas reached up hesitantly, his hand lingering just above where his handprint lay._

  _Head tilted to the side, Cas seemed to be asking Dean’s permission before pressing his hand over the brand. Dean shrugged and made a noncommittal noise, but honestly, he was just as curious as Cas._

  _Steeling himself, Cas took a deep breath and pressed his hand firmly over Dean’s arm. An electric shock ran through Dean, toes to scalp; the surge was simultaneously agonizing and the best balm he’d ever felt. Following on that wave of icy heat was a disconcerting jumble of_ no get away he’s mine _, intense longing, an echo of flapping wings, and this incredible sorrow before Castiel wrenched his hand away, panting as if from exertion._

  _The angel took several long, raspy breaths (_ again, thought angels didn’t need to breathe _) before looking up at Dean. Dean struggled to get his heart and lungs under control again, then licked his lips nervously. Cas’s gaze fell to Dean’s now wet lips, his pupils dilated wide over the gorgeous blue of his irises._

  _“Cas. Why did you scare that girl off?” Dean thought he knew, but he_ needed _to hear it. It wasn’t_ real _until he heard it._

  _“I-” Cas wavered, unsure how to proceed, eyes still lingering on Dean’s mouth. They were still only a handbreadth apart, able to feel the puff of the other’s breath on one another. Dean wanted to lean in, to_ taste _that sweet, heady smell, and it was at that exact moment that Castiel, one angel and soldier of the Lord, winked out of existence before Dean’s eyes._

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

“God, you two are bigger idiots than I thought.” Sam finally said after having sat in silence for a full minute after Dean finished his story. But to his credit, he _hadn’t_ laughed.

 “Shut the fuck up, Sammy,” Dean growled, stabbing at a now very cold piece of pancake and stuffing it into his mouth, wishing he could make this situation disappear like he was about to obliterate his room-temperature meal.

 “Well, I guess Bobby owes me twenty bucks.” Sam seemed to be trying to hold back laughter now and failing miserably as silent laughs racked his oversized frame, a wheeze even escaping his lungs.

 “The hell is that supposed to mean?” Dean growled, already fed up with this emotional sharing bullcrap. He'd just bared his freaking soul, and Sam was holding back laughter. He contemplated fratricide by means of the dull diner knife in his right hand.

 Sam snorted, but ignored the inquiry regarding money owed. Instead, he offered, “Dude, Cas has had a thing for you...since _ever_.”

 “I’m not gay, Sam,” Dean retorted, glaring at the pool of maple syrup oozing into his eggs. Part of him cringed internally at that minor misshaping of the truth.

 “Well, you’re not exactly straight either.”

 Dean’s head jerked up to stare at his brother. Sam looked on in exasperation, a bitch-face ready to make an appearance any second. Curling his lip up, Dean prepared to brush him off, but was interrupted. With a sigh, Sam said, “Dean, you can subscribe to as many ‘Busty Asian Beauties’ porn sites as you want, but that isn’t going to change what we both know, and a few things you kept from Dad.”

 A stare-down commenced between the two brothers; Dean was trying to determine how much his little brother knew about one or two certain events, and Sam was just trying to forget how _much_ he knew about Dean's exploits.

 Dean caved first, rubbing his hands over his tired eyes, before resting his face on his knuckles with a sigh. _This fucking blows_.

 Treading lightly, Sam asked, “Have you tried calling to him?”

 “ _Yes_. Several times. When he zapped himself away and about every hour since then,” Dean said with a weary tone.

 “And no response?”

 “Nothing.”

 “Dean, you need to stop beating yourself up.”

 Dean snorted at Sam through a mouthful of eggs, which had the consistency of rubber now that they were cold. They unfortunately didn’t taste much better than salted rubber, either.

 “Hey, no, don’t do that. This isn’t your fault. Well... _actually_ it is. It’s _both_ of your faults. But you didn’t do anything wrong last night, not that I heard. You and Cas are just too freaking scared to admit to anything. And there’s _something_ there. Everyone sees it,” Sam continued, trying assuage his brother’s anguish.

 “He _ran_ , Sam. Pretty easy message to decipher.”

 “You think Bobby and I have been making bets for nothing?” Sam retorted, eyebrows raised, his mouth quirked up into this ridiculous smirk that Dean desperately wanted to wipe off his face—with his fists.

 He resisted that urge, but only just. He’d had a lifetime of practice at that. He closed his tired eyes and breathed through his nose, trying to calm himself down. No use throttling Sammy, who was only trying to help. _Though he’s not being very helpful_. His eyes flashed back open, though he remained silent, not bothering to dignify Sam’s jab with a response.

 Minutes passed. The back corner booth heard no more conversation, save for the scrap of silverware on plates and the dull thuds of mugs being placed back on the table. Finally Dean said, “Well, those demons aren’t goin’ to gank themselves.”

 Sam eyed him with worry, trying to decide whether to try to broach the subject again, but judging by the stony set of Dean’s jaw, it wouldn’t get anywhere. He sighed and then replied, “Guess not. I’ll pay and meet you at the Impala?”

 Dean nodded curtly and pushed off from the booth, downing the last of his apple juice before setting the glass on the table with a thud and taking his leave. Sam ran his right hand through his hair, thinking. _Better at least try Cas_. He waited until the front door slammed shut—signifying Dean’s departure—to take out his phone and dial Cas’s cell phone number. It rang ten times before landing on a generic voicemail recording. If Castiel was really that upset (though Sam couldn’t really fathom why—other than just being spooked by his own feelings), then he’d be screening the calls anyways. Sam waited for the beep and said, “Hey Cas, it’s Sam. Dean and I are trying to figure out the game plan for Omaha. We’re going to head there now. So...umm...meet us there then, I guess. I’ll let you know what motel we’re at. Umm...yeah...hope everything’s okay. Alright, bye.”

 He ended the call, feeling moronic after leaving that bumbling voicemail, and walked up to the cash register. The fresh-faced girl, who couldn't be more than seventeen, blushed and stammered when Sam handed her the check. He smiled, trying to ease her nerves, but that didn't help, _apparently_. Lynn—according to her nametag—turned beet red and sent a sheaf of papers on the counter scattering to the floor. Sam moved to help, but at this point, the waiter, Maggie, bustled in, shooing away the mortally embarrassed Lynn and taking charge.

 With a quick smile, she said, “Sorry about that. Lynn’s not used to strapping young men like yourself being charming.”

 “I wasn’t trying to-”

 “I know you weren’t, dear,” Maggie chuckled, ringing up the total into the cash register. Sam handed her cash and told her to keep the change, for which she thanked him and wished him a good day.

 Sam detoured to the bathroom for a quick stop, then hustled out to the Impala, which Dean had in neutral while he revved the engine. The sound of 275 horses roaring at eight o’clock in the morning in a small-town main street drew plenty of attention, which Sam thought a bit foolhardy; there were plenty that wanted to find him and Dean—loudly broadcasting their location by way of the ‘67 Chevy Impala just seemed unnecessary and reckless. Which, now that Sam thought about it, could be the title of Dean’s biography.

 Taking a brief moment to glance skyward, Sam whispered a prayer to Castiel, “Castiel, if you’re listening, please come back. I don't know exactly what is going on with you, but I know Dean’s really upset about last night and wants to talk to you. Also, we could _really_ use the back up with the demons. We’re still at the diner just down the road from where Dean stayed.”

 He hoped for the flutter of wings and rustling of a trench coat that meant Cas had arrived, but all that was audible was the cycling down of the Impala’s engine and AC/DC’s “High Voltage” blasting out of the speakers. Sam cringed at the volume and song choice.

 Dean hollered, “C’mon Sammy!”

 Sam bit back the reflexive retort about calling him ‘Sammy’, opened the passenger door, and slid in. He’d barely had a chance to shut the door when Dean was flooring it out of the parking lot. He couldn’t help but think he should be the one driving this morning.

 Fresh tires squealed on worn pavement, faded red-brick buildings flashed by in a blur, and Sam prayed to Castiel again under his breath—this time for his brother to get laid and _soon_.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Storming into a demons’ nest with one demon blade, a jug of holy water, some pre-loaded rock salt shotgun rounds, an ex-demon blood junkie, and a brash, borderline-Kamikaze hunter without any form of back-up could be ranked as one of the world’s most classic blunders—right beneath getting involved in a land war in Asia.

 Dean still wasn’t certain how they finagled themselves out of that situation alive, and relatively unscathed. Rather, Sam was unharmed, except a few minor scrapes and bruises; Dean was sporting a deep gash to his shoulder from when one of the demons housed in a skinny teenage girl used its power to fling Sam across the room into Dean. Dean had hit the floor with two hundred pounds of solid demon blade-wielding Sasquatch on top on him and hadn’t even noticed he’d been cut by the knife at first because of the ringing in his ears from cracking his head on the floor.

 After a brief regroup and a distraction involving Sam running full-bore into the gang of demons swinging the knife while Dean spray-painted a hasty Devils’ Trap on the floor, the two of them managed to gank the five demons in the house and then the four others that arrived just after a giant power-surge flashed through the house, almost as a warning.

 Now Dean sat on the bed of their motel room, trying to muster up the energy to go wash himself up. The bathroom seemed way too far away to bother with, but he had a mix of his blood and a few demons' on his clothes, not to mention assorted other oddities picked up from his flirtations with the floor. _So freakin’ done with today._

 “You’re hurt,” came the deep, reproachful voice from beside him.

 If Dean hadn’t been so bone-tired, he would’ve jumped out of his skin at the sound of his angel speaking after having zapped himself into the motel room a moment before. Sam had patched Dean up and then left him to wallow in his misery. Not that Dean blamed Sam; he wouldn’t want to be around him either. And now Cas had arrived—a little too late to help with the demon problem—looking remorseful and more miserable than Dean had thought a divine soldier could be.

 The angel stood a scant three feet away, wavering between moving towards Dean like he wanted to, and backing away like Dean usually asked him to do. Dean ached from a blow to the head and a knife wound to the shoulder, which Sam had stitched up before leaving to find some dinner. His patience had flat-lined at zero, and all Dean wanted was something to help him feel not so off-kilter. That something was the disheveled trench coat angel to his right.

 So Dean made the decision for Castiel.

 Reaching over, Dean ensnared Cas’s wrist and tugged him closer to the bed—to him—but didn’t let go when Cas’s feet reached their destination. Cas stood motionless, his bewildered, radiant eyes fixed on Dean’s. With a bravery Dean didn’t know he possessed, he shifted his right hand down from Cas’s wrist, entwining their fingers together.

 Cas dropped his eyes to where their hands joined, staring in avid fascination, before squinting and glancing back up at Dean. But his hand squeezed Dean’s reassuringly; Dean didn’t know if that was a conscious move on Cas’s part, or just a reflex, but he felt himself relax an infinitesimal amount.

 “Cas-” Dean started, but the angel’s free hand lifted up to his face, and he immediately forgot what he was going to say.

 “Shh,” Cas said in deep concentration, his hand sliding along Dean’s jaw to cup the side of his face. Cas’s thumb stroked along his cheek, scraping over the day’s unshaved stubble and a minor scratch from the fighting, before Cas pressed his hand up through Dean’s hair, coming to rest over the lump where his head had struck the stone floor.

 That squint morphed into a frown as he palpated the injury, using extreme care not to press down enough to hurt Dean any further. Cas’s left hand let go of Dean’s, and instead cradled the back of Dean’s head while the angel inspected the bump further.

 Dean gulped, loudly, and struggled to breathe without wheezing or gasping. _Holy shit, keep calm._ Cas stood in between his legs, kneecaps pressed against the side of the bed as he bent over to inspect to the top of Dean’s head. The trench coat fell open around Dean, sending a wave of that distinctive Cas-smell wafting into his nose as it settled around him.

 He tried desperately to think of anything other than the lean body scant inches from him. _Demons. Flat-tires. Cheap whiskey hangover._ That patented method worked for all of ten seconds before his brain slipped into the much easier pattern of: _Blue eyes. Tousled hair. Lithe muscle. Full lips._ Dean let out a small groan at his mind’s rebellion.

 “You need to be more careful, Dean,” Castiel admonished, now examining the knife wound and Sam’s handiwork with dental floss. His hands were as gentle as ever, though his left hand remained to cradle the back of Dean’s head.

 No one except his mother had ever handled him with such care and adoration. Dean had no idea how to handle the raw emotions he read in Cas’s touch and face, and a part of him that he wasn’t proud of slipped out then. “Why? Not like you care,” Dean snapped, feeling like pond scum the moment it left his mouth. _No, worse than pond scum. Sewer water._

 Cas fell back a few steps, disbelief written on every feature of his exquisitely formed face. Dean ached at the absence of his touch, cursing himself for ever wanting Cas, because now he’d hurt him. _Can angels cry?_ Seeming to shrink down in size after Dean’s words, Cas’s head from swung from side to side, probably deciding whether to flee again.

 “No! _Shit_. Cas, I didn’t mean that.” Dean pushed himself off the bed and stumbled after Cas, the concussion and blood loss making him dizzy, but he managed to catch himself before hitting the ground.

 No wait, that was Castiel.

 The angel’s astoundingly strong arms slipped around Dean’s torso, under his arms, supporting his weight with ease. Dean sagged as his world threatened with gold sparks and looming darkness in his vision, but Cas simply held on tighter, holding up Dean’s larger frame with minimal effort. Sometimes it was easy to forget how strong Cas was despite being housed in the slim body of a white-collar worker.

 He sighed, knowing what he had to do; he didn’t deserve Cas, not to be saved, not to have Cas pressed against him in the ways he’d been dreaming about for months. “You should probably go, Cas. I’m just fucking everything up,” he said, his mouth against Cas’s neck, just below his ear, where his head was currently propped. He couldn’t move from that position if he wanted—between Cas’s iron grip and the world spinning out of orbit.

 Cas tensed and then let out an abrupt exhale but still remained stiff. He grumbled low in his throat, an indistinguishable muttering, though the rumbling was more soothing to Dean than anything else. Suddenly, there was a buzzing feeling in his stomach and a yank—seemingly on his spinal cord—before blackness.

 Dean was now lying on the bed, eyes staring at the popcorn ceiling leftover from the 70’s when the motel had been built. _What the hell?_ He canted his head to the side, eyes searching until they landed on Cas.

 The angel offered a quick, faint smile that faded as he leaned over to roll up Dean’s sleeve, revealing the handprint. Cas explained, “I’m going to use the Grace left in you to heal up your head, and your shoulder wound, if there’s enough. But I have to redirect it through you, so this might be uncomfortable.”

 “’snot _that_ bad,” Dean mumbled, tongue feeling as though it was coated in molasses. _Must be an after-effect of getting zapped to the bed_. He tried to push Cas away, not wanting him to sacrifice any more of his angelic powers for Dean’s sake.

 “You need to hold still for this, Dean,” Castiel warned, his brow creased in what Dean hoped was concentration and not worry.

 Dean closed his eyes and focused on breathing. He was used to this; though normally, it was Sam handing him whiskey and then patching him up with dental floss—like a few hours earlier. _Another day in the life_. He hummed his favorite Kansas song softly to himself before opening one eye with a smirk and slurring, “You know, usually I get some booze before someone's gonna to patch me up.”

 Cas shot him a despairing look and muttered, “ _Dean_.”

 So it _was_ worry then. _Great_. Dean tried to push that from his thoughts. He didn’t want to know what would be making Castiel so nervous. He continued humming the song, though his eyes remained open, tracking Cas’s every move. His concussed brain tried to tell him that watching Cas was out of survival and curiosity, not that other thing. But that lie he told himself smelled a little fishy to Dean even in this state.

 The angel sighed, eying the handprint branded on Dean’s shoulder. If Cas had been human, he’d be pinching the bridge of his nose—knowing what he had to do, but not liking it one bit. His eyes went vacant for a few moments, looking at Dean, but not actually seeing. Dean surmised Cas was trying to harness what little Grace he had left after being cut off from the Heavenly Host. Then those blue eyes snapped open, determined to the point of bravado. Dean gulped reflexively; Cas looked really ho-

 Dean's brain stuttered and dropped that thought when Castiel leaned over and placed his left hand in the center of Dean's sternum, pinning him down to the bed. In any other circumstance, this would've been the biggest turn-on _ever_ , but this seemed like it was about to precede something painful ( _and_ not _in a good way_ ).

 Confirming this suspicion, Cas said, “I’m sorry for this, Dean.”

 Dean tried to push off the bed, but Cas’s hand pressing into his chest allowed no leeway. Annoyed, a little scared, he demanded, “For what?”

 Not waiting for Dean to brace himself, Cas latched his hand onto Dean's arm over the mark and _pushed_. That push Dean felt like a scorching wave through his veins, burning through his flesh until it reached a crescendo in his head. There was a last flash of ethereal, glowing blue eyes, and then all-encompassing darkness welcomed him into its embrace.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Dean became aware of the soothing sensation of hands running through his hair. The touch was light, never ceasing movement, as it ruffled through his hair, occasionally making a detour to trace a feathery touch along his cheek or temple. Dean was still swimming in the murky waters of semi-consciousness, but had no real desire to break the surface.

 He was warm, his body no longer ached, there was no more grit and dried blood itching his skin, his head was cradled in Castiel’s lap, and-

  _His head was in Cas’s lap???_

 Dean’s eyes flew open to find his head propped in Cas’s lap—who sat cross-legged on the bed to support Dean’s head and neck—and the angel absent-mindedly tousling Dean’s hair between his slender fingers as he stared off at the geometric-patterned wallpaper.

 He had no idea what was going on or if he deserved this kind of adoration, but Dean also knew he never wanted it to stop. He lay there for several minutes, basking in the small ministrations from the angel, until a tiny sigh of contentment escaped his lips, and Cas’s attention jerked back to the present. Upon realizing Dean was awake, he shimmied out from under Dean’s head and replaced himself with a pillow so fast that Dean suspected Cas of doing several small zaps to accomplish the feat.

 By the time Dean managed to sit up in bed, Castiel was halfway across the room, looking harried and a bit broken. Cas’s shoulders hunched beneath the trench coat, and all Dean wanted was for Cas to come back, so he could try to hold the angel together, like the soldier of God had done so many times before for him.

 Of course, what came out of his traitorous mouth was an entirely different story.

 “So that’s it then?” Dean demanded of Cas, who was walking away from the bed. Dean, now able to think without the fog of a concussed brain looming over him, was angry. _And frustrated_. And so many other burning thoughts that they swirled into a maelstrom of indecipherable emotions that left Dean feeling charred from the inside out. He wasn’t sure he’d survive this intact.

 “I do not know,” Cas said, wheeling around so fast that Dean didn’t even register the movement. Maybe he’d zapped himself that way again. At any rate, Cas’s voice sounded like razor blades on chalk ripped from his chest—indecision from the heart of a creature born to act, not hesitate.

 Dean scoffed. “What don’t you know?”

 “You, _your mind_. I do not think _you_ know what you want yet.” Cas cocked his head to the side and contemplated Dean. Two calm steps back towards Dean before he added, “I want this—me—to be _your_ choice. Not because you think you owe me your life, nor because your body needs to have intercourse.” His words faded into melancholy because—Dean realized—Cas honestly thought those might be the reasons why Dean had shown an interest.

 That realization hurt worse than the demon blade being turned on him earlier in the day. _Fuck…he thinks…_ No, _Cas._ Hoping to ease some of Cas’s suffering, Dean blurted out, “I _do_ want you, Cas. I-I can’t even explain how much. But I can’t ask that of you…not after everything.”

 A pregnant pause filled the room as Castiel studied Dean.

 “Even when I am freely giving it?” Cas asked after a time, emotionless. Dean marveled at how Cas could wipe all feeling out of his voice, leaving only the deep, coarse tone he’d only ever heard come out of Castiel. He wished he shared the same ability.

 Dean gave up trying to escape Cas’s piercing scrutiny and said, voice cracking, “You’re an _angel_. Do angels even do this? I mean, you probably don’t even know what you’re trying to sign up for, man.”

 The last sentence was a vain attempt to make this more casual and less fraught with things like love, lust, and heart’s desires. _Like that would work, genius._ Castiel’s eyebrows scrunched together, baffled and hurt by that statement. Cas uncharacteristically sputtered and said, “But…I have watched the earth for millennia. I know human love. My emotions aren’t quite the same but I-”

 Cas faltered, and Dean suppressed the urge to smother him in his arms, to wash away the sadness enveloping his angel like a cloak. Torn, Dean whispered, “That’s not what I meant.”

 “Then what _did_ you mean?” Castiel was in full-on baffled squint again, trying no doubt to pluck the thoughts straight from Dean’s head.

 Dean clawed at reasoning, though his mind screamed impossibilities. He shook his head and buried his face in his hands, willing the voice yelling _Want Cas, want Cas, want Cas_ to stop. Cool fingers cupped under his chin, and Dean dropped his hands away to look up at Cas. Cas blinked several times and asked, voice hoarse and raspy, “Do you want me to stay?”

 He opened his mouth to protest, to send his angel away for good, but Cas cut him off, “ _No_ , not ‘do you think I should stay?’ Do you _want_ me to stay?”

 “Doesn’t matter, you’re a freaking angel, and I’ve already put you through enough. You deserve something a hell of a lot better than me.” Dean couldn’t look Cas in the eyes; if he did, it would eliminate any resolve he’d built up. This was it, this was his decision—he’d save Castiel from the twisted, murky depths of misery that surrounded his life.

 “Look at me,” Cas ordered, and though he tried to fight it, Dean couldn’t help but obey the authority ringing in Cas’s voice.

 Lightning crackled through Castiel’s azure eyes, flashing of the oncoming storm. “How _dare_ you, Dean Winchester. How dare you presume to decide what is good for me?” Cas’s grip tightened on Dean’s chin when he tried to look away for the umpteenth time and forced him to face Cas again. “I happen to be of the belief that you are _far_ too good for me. If not for you, I would be still committing atrocities or watching them occur in the name of Heaven.”

 Dean faltered, sailing in uncharted waters. He’d never, not once in his life, heard someone say that _he_ was too good for them. That those words had just come out of an angel’s mouth made it sound all the more unbelievable. He couldn’t—didn’t—believe Cas. Even if the angel _did_ think that, it wasn’t true. Dean Winchester knew he was many things, but an even match in spirit and soul for an angelic being weren’t among them, even one whose halo might be a bit dented and tarnished. He wanted this so badly but-

 “You do not see yourself clearly, Dean,” Cas said, easing the hold on Dean’s face and dropping his hand away, letting his fingers trail down Dean’s neck and shoulder before returning to his side. The angel’s fists clenched, and all Dean wanted was for them to be in contact with him again.

 Craving this despite that part of him screaming, _Not good enough, not good enough_ , Dean looked up at Castiel. Those dazzling eyes held traces of unease and discouragement, though Cas gave him a shy, crooked smile. That smile was a tenuous thing; one wrong move or word from Dean, and it would disappear forever.

 But Dean wasn’t about to let that happen.

 Dean’s hands shook as he reached out to grab Cas’s and intertwine their fingers. Cas rubbed his thumbs in soothing circles against Dean’s skin, and Dean couldn’t help but feel a rush of relief at doing something right. _Finally_. He eased himself off the bed and pushed into Cas’s space, while the angel shuffled back a few steps to give Dean the space he’d always desired.

 Those days were over.

 Still clutching Cas’s hands like lifelines, Dean stepped forward while gently drawing Cas in to him. Those blue, blue eyes widened in surprise, though Cas didn’t resist Dean at all.

 They met in the middle, their bodies scant inches apart. Dean’s world reduced to short, nervous breaths and the flickering emotions dancing across the face of his angel. Cas’s mouth twitched in a constant motion, never settling on either a smile or frown. In fact, his face was in a continuous war with itself, unable to win the battle between sheer excitement and fear of the unknown. The only fixed features were his eyes; they stared into Dean’s with unswerving focus.

 For all of Castiel’s inherent self-assurance and conviction in his power, he was still the angel that had spent thousands of years watching over Earth from afar, never interfering in the affairs of humans—up until several months ago, of course. The result being that this mighty divine-being was socially awkward and unaccustomed to interacting with or _being_ a human. That meant Dean would have to lead.

 With deliberate slowness, Dean let go of Cas with his right hand and brought it up to the other man’s face. His fingers brushed along Cas’s cheek, and Cas leaned into his touch, eyes closing at the gentle contact. Cupping his hand against the angel’s jaw, Dean traced his thumb over Castiel’s lips, which parted, letting out a small puff of breath.

  _Freaking beautiful_. Dean marveled at Castiel and wondered _why_ he’d been such a damn idiot. Why _they’d_ been such idiots.

 Cas’s eyes flashed open at that, and with a touch of mirth making his eyes twinkle, he murmured, “I prefer cautious. Neither of us are imbeciles.”

 Dean was reminded that touch amplified Cas’s mind-reading abilities and laughed at the angel’s response. Castiel was actually hilarious, if one took the time to realize that his deadpan delivery masked some very dry wit.

 He leaned in and rested his forehead against Cas’s and closed his eyes, just _breathed_. He felt Cas fidget slightly and without opening his eyes, knew the angel had his open despite them being—maybe—an inch apart.

 “Cas, usually when someone’s this close, you shut your eyes,” Dean said, his own eyes still closed as he leaned against Cas.

 The fidgeting stopped. A confused whisper followed, “But why? I enjoy looking at you. And I can see your freckles better up close.”

 “There’s plenty of time for looking. But you’re supposed to close your eyes when you kiss,” Dean said with a chuckle at the angel’s bemused words.

 “But we’re not-”

 Dean didn’t give Castiel a chance to finish that statement. Hand under Cas’s jaw, Dean tilted the angel’s chin up and pressed his lips against Castiel. He kept it firm, brief, and close-mouthed before drawing back to gauge Cas’s reaction. Castiel had followed after him for a moment before realizing Dean had pulled away, and those blue eyes flashed open, pupils wide and eager for more. And though their faces had a few inches of space between them, during the kiss, the both of them had melted in against one another. Now, Dean’s left arm encircled Cas, resting at the small of his back, while his other hand still cupped his partner’s face. Cas’s right hand gripped Dean’s arm, just below the handprint mark, and the other hand clasped around Dean’s neck.

 So close, that Dean couldn’t tell if the twitch from below the belt came from Cas or him. _Or both_ , Dean mused ruefully. Cas glanced downward, head canted to the side, puzzled, and Dean tried not to laugh at the naiveté of the angel. He knew the angel must’ve seen all this happen at some point—he was several millennia old after all—but much like everything else in life, until it was experienced in person, it was an unknown factor. Sex was _much_ different in theory as opposed to practice. But Dean had had more than enough practice over the years.

 Mustering up his courage and making a snap decision, Dean thought, _Well, here goes nothin’_.

 Dean stepped back and sat down on the end of the bed. Cas had taken a step towards him as he backed away, but then stopped, vacillating between following Dean and remaining where he stood. The uncertainty of what to do started up, causing the angel to begin squirming again. He shifted his weight and picked at an invisible thread on the rumpled trench coat.

 He didn’t leave Cas hanging for long.

 Reaching up, Dean grabbed Cas by the tie and pulled him closer to the bed. Castiel’s chest stuttered in surprise, but he let his body be guided up against Dean, though it held the rigid stiffness from before their kiss.

 Dean tugged on the tie again, this time drawing Cas’s head down towards his level. He noted the wide-eyed alarm on Cas’s face and paused. With his other hand, he ran his fingers along Cas’s jaw as he asked, “You okay? We don’t have to do anything. We can stop right now. It’s okay.”

 “No,” Cas blurted out, then cast his eyes away from Dean’s. He swallowed, gathered resolution, and said, “I just do not have any…experience…in this part of being human.”

 Dean chuckled, ruffling the hair at the base of Cas’s head. The angel used to smiting demons and fending off archangels was nervous. _Of him_. Castiel managed an uneasy smile in return, though he looked really pale. Softly, Dean said, “Do you trust me?

 “Of course, Dean,” Cas answered with his forehead wrinkled, looking offended that Dean had to ask.

 Dean tugged at the tie again and said, “Then relax. It’ll be okay. But just tell me if you want to stop.”

 Cas nodded and caved his body around Dean’s. They fell back onto the bed, Cas halfway on top of Dean as they clambered to get comfortable. They wound up side by side, facing one another. Cas froze, unsure of himself, until Dean reached out and drew Cas’s face in closer, picking up where they’d left off.

 He pressed his lips to Cas’s, starting off soft and gentle. Cas took a few moments to pick up on the rhythm Dean set, but soon pressed into the kiss harder. Cas’s left hand grasped Dean’s hip, and Dean held the side of Cas’s face with his right hand, while the other worked at unbuttoning the rumpled oxford shirt Cas wore. As he fiddled with the buttons, Dean exhaled slightly, opening his lips and slipping his tongue into Cas’s mouth. Their tongues met, and Cas groaned in pleasure at the sensation.

 That noise shot straight to Dean’s groin and ripped a growl from his lungs. Dean wrested his attention from Cas’s lush lips, trailing kisses along the angel’s jawbone as he worked on the top button of the shirt and the tie. The tiny gasps from Cas’s mouth told Dean he was definitely on the right track. He smirked and exhaled a hot breath against Cas’s neck. _Gotcha_.

 Cas jerked and clutched tighter at Dean, his fingers now scrambling frantically, trying to find the hem of Dean’s shirt.

 “Like that, baby?” Dean whispered against Cas’s ear, setting off a chill on the left side of Cas’s body.

 He had the distinct pleasure of watching the angel’s sapphire eyes blaze and get overtaken by the dilation of his pupils. Cas managed a helpless nod before Dean began sucking on his earlobe. A whimper caught in the angel’s throat as Dean gave a light tug on his earlobe just as Dean got the tie undone and pushed the shirt and trench coat back.

 There was a brief scramble to get one another out of their respective shirts. Finally both sat up, and Dean shoved the shirt, tie, and coat off Cas’s arms and tossed them off the bed without a backward glance. Eager, Cas yanked Dean’s t-shirt up, and Dean complied, lifting his arms to help the angel. Now, with torsos bared, they both took a moment to drink the other in.

 Dean noted the pale, slim body before him in appreciation. Lean, supple muscle made up the hard planes of Cas’s body, making him realize that the angel needed to be sans the ill-fitting, holy tax accountant get-up more often. His gaze traced lower, noting the fairly significant tent in the pants with a smile. He glanced back up to Cas’s face and those blazing blue eyes that bore straight into him, probably looking at something far beyond the surface. _My soul?_

 He tried not to think about that; Dean really didn’t want to know what the angel could see, not of the dark and twisted depths of his mind. He could barely stand that part of himself.

 And apparently Castiel felt there’d been enough looking without touching, because Dean was taken a bit by surprise when Cas launched at him, pinning him to the bed, pressing his lips against Dean’s with none of grace and softness from before. Cas pulled himself away and growled, “You forget, I rebuilt the torn and eviscerated pieces of your soul. Nothing of you scares or repulses me. You are _beautiful_ and perfect, Dean Winchester.”

 With that, Cas kissed Dean on the temple, letting his lips linger there as he ran his fingers through Dean’s hair. It was just like before, when he was checking Dean’s wounds; the tenderness in how Cas touched him astounded Dean to his core. He couldn’t understand how an angel, this divine soldier that he’d seen kill demon and angels alike, could harbor this tender side. How this softness could be reserved for him, someone who didn’t deserve-

 “ _Dean_.” Those warm lips were removed from his forehead, and now Cas was glaring down at him, that raging tempest returning to his eyes. And this anger was directed at him— _no_ —his self-loathing thoughts. A very stupid corner of his brain grew giddy at the realization, that someone cared that much.

 In theory, Dean knew he should be frightened of Castiel in this state.

 But the hands that smoothed his hair and stroked his face with such care negated that stormy, furious gaze. Cas wouldn’t hurt him.

 “You deserve everything,” Cas said with conviction, his hands skimming down Dean’s neck, then chest, coming to rest over the anti-possession tattoo.

 Dean’s heart stammered an erratic beat as he watched Cas trace those long, slender fingers around each line of the tattoo, admiring and treasuring each speck of Dean’s being that he happened across. It wasn’t unwelcome. Just…unanticipated. And hot. _Very hot_.

 Cas’s mouth quirked up in the corners, this shy, sweet smile. A smile that transformed his always exquisitely formed face into something ethereal. The smile was all the more seamless because of its rarity.

 Though Dean couldn’t help but realize the smile and its broadening correlated to the thoughts in his head.

 “Get out of my head, angel,” Dean said, teasing. In this moment, he couldn’t help but be thankful for it. It was saving him a lot of stumbling and stuttering over words unaccustomed to passing over his tongue aloud.

 “Can’t help it,” Cas murmured, mouth now against Dean’s collarbone. The warm breath of his whisper sent shivers down Dean’s spine.

 He watched Castiel take in his sharp intake of breath, the involuntary bucking up of his hips, and the goosebumps on his skin with rapt interest. The angel cocked his head to the side, calculating this newfound discovery, and then immediately dropped his mouth down to Dean’s collarbone and exhaled once more before mouthing over the exposed bone.

 “ _Fuck_ , Cas,” Dean said, his fingers buried in Cas’s disheveled locks. This was paradise, and he never wanted to leave.

 Cas froze and jerked his head up, concerned. “Bad?”

 Ruffling Cas’s hair, Dean chuckled, “No, Cas. _Really_ good.” He grinned up Castiel, who returned the smile. He continued, “In fact, let me show you something else.”

 He promptly flipped the unsuspecting Castiel over, pinning the angel under his body. Dean then wedged his knee in between his partner’s pant-clad legs, pressing against Cas’s erection. Cas bit back a moan, his eyes fluttering at the sensation.

 Arms braced on either side of Cas’s head, Dean leaned down and kissed him. Cas reached up, tangling his fingers in Dean’s hair and pulled him in closer, opening his lips and slipping his tongue into Dean’s mouth.

 Dean slid his tongue against Cas’s, and they bit back twin groans of pleasure. He broke away to kiss up Cas’s jaw to lip softly at his earlobe and then down the side of the neck to the solid muscles of the angel’s chest. With his right hand, Dean brushed over Cas’s nipple, while he applied his mouth to the other, swirling his tongue in a lazy circle around the hardened nub.

 A smug grin slipped onto his face at the sounds that came out of Cas with that. _So fucking sexy._ Dean lifted his mouth away long enough to ask, “You gonna scream for me, Cas?” He gave Cas’s nipple a light graze with his teeth, rubbing the other with his right hand.

 If the noise ripped out of the angel’s throat wasn’t a scream, it was certainly close.

 Dean continued down Cas’s torso, leaving a line of wet kisses down his abdomen. Cas squirmed underneath him, but froze the second Dean rested his hand over the zipper of Cas’s pants. The angel gazed up at him, eyes wide.

 With a grin, Dean brushed his hand over the tented pants. Cas’s hips bucked up and a strangled cry died in his throat as he reached down and tried to unbutton the obstacle to further intimacies. Dean batted Cas’s hands away, much to the angel’s dismay.

 “ _Dean_ ,” Cas keened, twisting and shifting under Dean’s weight.

 Glancing up, Dean held back a chuckle at the desperation on Cas’s face, but quickly laid the angel’s worries to rest as he undid the button and zipper, and then slid them down with a little help—Cas lifted his weight off the bed so Dean could pull them down with ease.

 Pulling Cas’s pants down revealed a pair of navy blue boxer-briefs, which solved one of the mysteries that kept Dean up late at night. Of course, more important, was a hardened cock wanting to be freed. _There we go._

 Dean wasted no time. He slipped his hands under the waistband of the underwear; one hand yanked the boxer-briefs down while the other grasped Cas’s cock at the base. Cas was torn between trying to help Dean get the underwear off and giving in to his body’s desire to push against Dean’s hand. The angel wound up doing something in between and getting his legs tangled up in the clothing—much to his distress, judging by the frustrated whimper that emitted from his throat.

 He couldn’t help it this time—Dean buried his face against Cas’s stomach and laughed, his whole body shaking. Catching his breath, Dean glanced up to see Cas glaring at him, though with a smile quirking up one corner of his mouth. _Silly angel._

 “Sorry, Cas. Just hadn’t seen someone so eager to get out of their skivvies before,” Dean said with a chuckle, and then a kiss to Cas’s belly button.

 Cas harrumphed, but the smile overtook his mouth as he casually kicked the underwear the rest of the way off his legs. They were flung into the abyss off the edge of the bed with finality.

 “Now, where were we?” Dean asked with feigned nonchalance as he gave Cas’s cock one slow, smooth pump, still maintaining eye contact. 

 Cas gulped, his Adam’s apple visibly dancing. Dean smirked and rubbed his thumb over the head of Cas’s cock, smearing the pre-come in a languid circle. The angel’s fists clutched at the sheets and released a breathy exhale. Dean adjusted his position on the bed, ignoring his own aching hardness to focus on pleasuring Castiel.

 There was a mild hesitation on Dean’s part ( _hey, never done this before, thank you_ ), but he pushed past through the anxious thoughts of “What if I’m terrible at this?” and “What the fuck do I do?”. Because he knew how _he_ liked it, so he just had to apply that to his angel.

 So Dean played at the tip of Cas’s cock, alternating between sliding his thumb over the slit and lapping at the head with his tongue, enjoying the salty taste of Cas on his lips. He did this until the angel was writhing and making _obscene_ noises that had more of an effect on Dean’s dick than anything else so far.

 He rutted slightly against the mattress—the friction a sweet burn that made him moan around the mouthful of Cas’s cock. The vibration caused Cas to buck up his hips, Dean’s free hand unable to hold him in place. _Gotcha_. Dean suppressed a smile and hummed as he swallowed down on Cas’s length.

 The angel clutched at the sheets, his eyes frantic as they locked onto Dean’s, and _holy mother of blazing blue_. Dean gulped in wonder as he watched his beloved: the unruly hair plastered to the angel’s forehead in a light sheen of sweat, flushed cheeks, and those lush lips fallen open as Cas stared, enraptured by Dean going down on him. He faltered briefly—wondering how he got so fucking lucky—before resuming his established rhythm of going as far as he could comfortably go before sliding back up to lap at Cas’s slit and swallow back down again.

 One hand freed itself from the sheets to tangle into Dean’s hair and tug at it. Dean took this as a signal to increase the pace, but another pull at his head and a desperate “ _Dean_ ” made him glance back up at Cas.

 “It’s s’okay, Cas. Lemme take care of you,” Dean managed around the head of Cas’s cock.

 He moved to take in Cas again, but the hand caught in his hair dragged him up to Castiel’s unwavering gaze. _What’s he doing?_

“Up. Up here.” The usually eloquent and articulate angel was reduced to one-syllable words and another hair-tug as communication. A warm, smug feeling spread across Dean’s belly—that _he_ was the cause of that distraction.

  _Or maybe that’s just a puddle of pre-come_ , Dean mused. But he smiled and shrugged; this was whatever Cas wanted, since it was the angel’s first time. So Dean kissed his way back up the slim body until he was mouthing along Cas’s jawbone, with the angel moaning in pleasure.

 Reaching down, Dean wrapped his left hand around his untouched cock and Cas’s and gave a few deliberate, smooth pumps. He groaned against Cas’s neck, but suddenly there was a sharp nip on his neck and a change in latitude.

 Now, Dean was on his back, arms pinned to the bed—the left offender stretched above his head. Cas gazed down at him, eyes bright with lust, adoration, and a hint of reverence. Cas straddled him, and their cocks sat flush with one another, making Dean ache to cant his hips up, just so he could feel the slow slide of skin on-

 Another nip to the throat snapped Dean to attention. _Who the hell taught the angel_ that _? It was seriously hot._

Cas gave him an enigmatic smile before he slid back, maneuvering himself so his face was in line with Dean’s cock.

 Dean was painfully hard and not going to last long. Frankly, he didn’t understand how the _virgin_ angel had gone from looking thoroughly wrecked to in perfect control of his dick. _Dean_ was supposed to be the one controlling himself, but Cas was sitting there like he’d just unlocked the fucking secret of the universe and-

  _Holy fuck._

 Cas wasted no time. One second, he was kissing at the trail of dark hair leading down from Dean’s navel; the next, he had the majority of Dean’s length in his mouth and throat.

 And apparently no one had explained a gag reflex to Cas, but since he appeared to be having zero difficulties on that front, Dean wasn’t about to voice a complaint. Dean’s last coherent thought involved something about angels, mojo, and exceptions to blow-job rules before he was twisting, writhing, and fucking Cas’s mouth. Cas reached up to link his hands with Dean and watched as the hunter started to fall apart.

 The finish came embarrassingly quick. Cas fucking _hummed_ with his face buried against Dean’s groin; between the vibration and the hot, tight wetness of Cas’s mouth and throat, Dean came, his hips kicking up with Cas riding out every jerk, every spasm—sucking down the come until Dean stilled beneath him. Then the angel proceeded to lick every drop off Dean’s softening cock. From there, he licked and kissed his way up Dean’s abdomen and chest to initiate an unhurried kiss where Dean could taste the saltiness of himself with every push and slide of tongue.

 Finally, Dean started seeing colors and hearing sounds again and he looked into the blue wells of Cas’s eyes with amused fondness as he said, “Dude, I was supposed to take care of _you_. It’s your first time.”

 Cas’s face stretched into a pleased, carefree smile as he ran his fingers along Dean’s cheek. He murmured, “I know it had been a long time for you, Dean. And I wanted to do this for you. I love you.”

 Dean’s brain short-circuited for a moment, as it was prone to doing during times of intimacy. Those so-called ‘chick-flick moments’. He knew how he felt—he felt the same as Cas—but he had a hard time saying those words, in that particular order, to his brother or Bobby, let alone-

 “Relax, Dean. I know,” Cas said without a trace of resentment or unhappiness. There was only pure understanding in the crinkles of his smiling face.

 Which Dean had no idea how he deserved—or if this close proximity mind-reading thing was good or bad. It was really handy right now, but a man needs his privacy sometimes.

 A rueful grin from Cas. “I can teach you to put up mind-blocks, so I only hear what you want me to.”

  _Huh. Interesting._ But now for more pressing matters—like the one currently pressing against Dean’s hip.

 Dean motioned to Cas’s erection and asked, “Umm…isn’t that…a problem?”

 Cas frowned and glanced down at his cock like it was a disobedient pet. “Yes, a bit.”

  _How is he so fucking calm?_ Dean didn’t even need to repeat himself out loud; Cas read that one loud and clear.

 “I can control my body, cut off or reduce sensations to certain areas. This one is rather persistent though.” The last bit was said with a disappointed frown that made Dean burst out laughing.

 “What?” Cas queried, confused at Dean’s reaction.

 Dean leaned over and kissed Cas, fisting his hands into the angel’s hair before saying, “That’s because this problem tends not to go away on its own.”

 He moved his lips to Cas’s throat and one hand down to loosely grasp Cas’s cock. Dean whispered into the hollow of the throat, “And it’s _much_ more fun to let someone else take care of the problem for you.”

 Cas shuddered—at the tickle of Dean’s warm breath against his neck or the aching, perfect drag of Dean’s hand over his hardness, Dean couldn’t be sure. The one thing he was certain of, was that Castiel had loosened whatever control he had over his nerve receptors; the angel was thrusting against Dean hard and grabbing—his hair, face, forearm, hip, shoulder, and then the handprint on Dean’s upper arm.

 Warmth spread from where Cas clutched his arm and pooled in his belly, just behind his navel. Those embers turned to flames as Dean continued to pump up and down Cas’s shaft, until Dean looked up from Cas’s blown pupils to the set of night sky blue wings flecked with white unfurling with an almighty snap, sending papers rustling, lamps crashing, and electricity sparking in the room.

 Dean reached up with his free hand and dug his fingers into the silken feathers at first joint of Cas’s right wing and tugged, much like he’d done on Cas’s hair earlier. The reaction he got was much better than the hair pulling from earlier though.  

 Cas screamed as he came in Dean’s hand, clutching at Dean as waves of sheer ecstasy flooded the connection they shared. Dean’s last thought before the combined pleasure overwhelmed his senses and slipped him into blackness was this:

  _Constellations. He has constellations on his wings._

 And with that, he sank into a warm, welcoming oblivion that smelled of wind-blown air, spent gunpowder, and an evergreen forest after rainfall.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

 Using his room key, Sam opened the motel room door and paused, sensing something was off. His eyes saw the haphazard pile of discarded clothes on the floor—most notable of which was the tan trench coat—and followed the trail to the opposite bed.

 Dean was sprawled on his stomach, his face relaxed and touched with a hint of a smile. A pale arm was slung across the hunter’s back—those fingers intertwining with Dean’s against the sheets. Protective even in his sleep ( _Do angels sleep?_ ), Castiel’s body pressed against Dean’s, his head resting on the other man’s shoulder. Their bodies rose and fell with the easy rhythm of tranquil thoughts.

 Without a second thought, Sam retrieved his phone from his pocket and opened the camera. He snapped a picture of the two and then quickly shoved his phone away when Castiel stirred.

 One of Cas’s eyes popped open; Sam and Cas stared at each other silently for several moments. Sam wondered if the angel had heard his last prayer early. The faint half-smile on Cas’s face told Sam he had, so with a sense of accomplishment, Sam nodded and took his leave.

 He locked the door behind him before taking out his phone again and attaching the photo to a text message to Bobby.

 “Hey, you owe me $50 now.”

 Sam Winchester smirked and walked towards the motel office to get his own room.

 It had been a good day.          

 


End file.
